


Save Me

by lustig



Series: The Trevilieu Queeniverse [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Lots of unneccessary Queen references, M/M, Queen - Freeform, Queen music, Various other characters in supporting roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 08:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12701301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/pseuds/lustig
Summary: Treville and Richelieu used to define their relationship with Queen songs - until it all blew up and the Captain loses his music together with the love of his life.





	Save Me

**Author's Note:**

> This work would not exist if not for [Kardinalka's Trevilieu Music Challenge](https://kardinalka.tumblr.com/post/163795967270/music-for-my-trevilieu) \- snippets of this work were already posted there.
> 
> If you have the time or can take it, I'd recommend listening to the music the whole story builds upon. I made a playlist for exactly that purpose, which you can find here: [Save Me - A Trevilieu Fanfiction](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iw3izcZd9zU&list=PLGwh877Se4Li4oXNev_j2xKMVZEiKddFo&index=1)

 

 

 

**Part I - Save me**

 

Jean had only wanted a calm evening in his (admittedly too large) house, with a beer and a bit of crap telly maybe, when the shrill sound of his doorbell disturbed his circling thoughts.

 

It was Aramis, accompanied by the Gang, as he had fondly dubbed them.

 

“It’s Friday evening, more than two hours after your shift. What’re you doing here? You don’t look like something has happened,” he greeted his subordinates.

 

“We’re going out for a drink, Captain,” Aramis stated enthusiastically.

 

“And we want you to come with us,” d’Artagnan added, unnecessarily.

 

“No.”

 

He was about to close the door, when Aramis’ foot wedged itself in between, and the boy pleaded:

“C’mon, Captain. You haven't left your house in, like, forever! When was the last time you had fun?” Jean leaned against the door, not yet ready to cave in.

 

“I know a club just a few blocks away, nice and cosy,” Athos added, somewhere down in the garden. As soon as the old officer moved away from the door, Aramis stumbled inside, beaming at his superior.

 

“It’s absolutely safe,” he promised, “We've been going there for years! Please?"

 

"Oh well,” Treville finally yielded, “I'll give it a try. Maybe you're right and an evening out will do me a little good."

_What could actually happen? It’ll be about the same as at home_ , he thought to himself. _The beer is a little more expensive and there’ll probably be more music than telly, but the boys will be happier if I come._ They deserved a little gratification every now and then. And he trusted Athos, with his life if necessary. They had gone through enough, together.

 

 

 

The club was actually surprisingly nice, as Aramis had promised. The five of them got a little drunk together, enjoying the music and the company.

 

D’Artagnan had picked some kind of colourful cocktail that looked terribly sweet, Athos, his usual whiskey and Treville had gotten himself his well-deserved beer. Aramis and Porthos were trying to drink the other under the table with a clear liquor, vodka, most likely. They’d probably regret it over the weekend, but Jean knew all-too-well that they’d be fine when they were back at the Station on Monday.

 

He had slowly started to relax, only half-listening to the conversations floating around him, when the first bars of _Save Me_ could be heard. His whole body tensed in one terrible shudder, shattering the glass in his balled fist. At the sharp sound the Gang’s head snapped around, their shocked gazes focussing on the shards and the spreading puddle.

 

Athos was the first to realise what was wrong, his eyes wide while he growled “Shit. Shitshitshit, get him out!” His eyes wandered to the speaker on the wall, signalling the others the source of their captain’s distress.

 

Treville felt detached, not really able to comprehend what was happening. His mind focused on the lyrics, well known, well beloved, once. In another time, another life. _The years belie we lived a lie, "I'll love you 'til I die"_

 

Aramis jumped up, over the table, hissing something along the lines of “I’m gonna kill that DJ”, Porthos not far behind. Only d’Artagnan looked completely baffled, like he couldn’t comprehend _what the fuck_ was happening right now.

 

Before the hothead had gotten down from the table again Treville growled: “Aramis, stop. Sit down.” He had instinctively used his Captain Voice, making Aramis halt dead in his tracks. He looked insecure, unsure and angry at the same time, his gaze switching between Treville and the DJ booth.

 

“What the fuck?” D’Artagnan finally found his voice again. “That’s only Queen! Queen is great, how can anyone _not_ like Queen?”

 

The rest of the Gang looked at their youngest, frowning.

 

"He doesn't know," Porthos stated softly.

 

"How could he? He wasn't here when _it_ happened,” Athos agreed.

 

"And no one has ever told him," Aramis finished.

 

Jean refused to look at any of them, staring into the distance instead. He started to meticulously pick the glass shards out of his hand, his teeth clenched.

 

“When what happened?” d’Artagnan pressed, obviously dissatisfied with the lack of information he had gotten. “And why does the Captain not like Queen because of it?”

 

Jean finally raised his voice again, still not looking at any of his boys. “Because I used to define my marriage by their songs,” he stated calmly, placing the last of the shards next to the beer puddle on the table.

 

“You’re married?” d’Artagnan asked, incredulously.

 

“Not anymore.” He stood up, grimacing and gave the three other men a scathing look. “I’m going to get some air. _Alone_.” He turned, holding his injured hand like a bowl so as not to splatter his blood somewhere in the club.

 

After one, two steps into the crowd he turned once again and said: “Tell him, if you want to.” With that he disappeared.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

**Part II - I. Crazy Little Thing Called Love**

 

Armand wasn’t enjoying himself. He stood there, trying to hide in one of the darker corners of the club, nursing an alcohol-free drink. What was Anne thinking, talking him into _this_? He was surrounded by drunk frat boys and equally drunk girls, dancing to too-loud music and shouting at top of their voice to communicate.

 

He felt old. His _dear_ friend had already disappeared with one of the stupid kids around, probably causing them to fall over their feet to please her. Milady did have a talent for that.

 

 

 

The young man sighed and looked for a place to leave his glass, with the full intention of leaving the club as soon as possible, meaning _now_. Before he could make another step, though, one of the other customers stumbled into him, a little shorter than he was with broad shoulders and an athletic build. He frowned down at him. The other man murmured an indistinct “sorry”, before looking up. His striking blue eyes widened for a fraction, checking out Armand shamelessly.

 

“Haven’t seen you here before, hmm?” he rumbled with a surprisingly pleasant voice. There was a slight slur to it. So, he was also drunk. Great. Armand placed his glass somewhere behind him and stepped past the man. He didn’t get very far, stopped by a strong hand grabbing his arm.

 

“You’ve got pretty hair. Wha’s your name?” The other man smiled at him, a lopsided grin, his eyes sparkling. Armand wrenched himself free of the grip, but with less power than he would have thought.

 

“Armand,” he answered truthfully, staying against his better judgement. A hand automatically combed through his curls, puzzled. He couldn’t even remember the last time someone had given him a compliment about his _hair_. It was too wild, too unruly, too uncontrollable for his taste.

 

“I’m Jean.” The other man’s - _Jean’s_ smile widened, looking far too pleased. He opened his mouth, probably to ask another question, when the song changed yet again, into the first bars of Queen’s new single _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_. His head whipped around, blue eyes full of delight and he shouted, over the rising volume, “Gosh, I love that song!”

 

Before Armand had any chance to react, Jean had grabbed his hand and dragged him onto the dance floor.

 

 

 

Jean was actually pretty great after Armand got over the first impulse of intense anger at being dragged around like some fucking _object_. He was a talented dancer, obviously in love with Freddie Mercury and, even while drunk, able to crack one or two funny jokes. And he wasn’t shy about his appreciation for Armand. The music had changed yet again, Michael Jackson. They stood next to the dance floor, both with another drink (Jean’s treat), watching the other dancers, slightly out of breath and leaning against each other. Armand’s gaze fell on his watch and he nearly dropped his drink in response.

 

Jean, obviously seeing the movement out of the corner of his eyes, turned his head towards the taller man. “What’s the matter?”

 

“Shit, it’s already so late. I have an important class in the morning! Sorry, Jean, t'was really nice meeting you, but I have to go, _now_.” He took a business card out of one of his pockets and gave it to his baffled companion. “My number, call me if you want to, ‘kay?” He looked around, agitated. Jean threw one look at the card and grinned, the same lopsided grin he had given Armand at the beginning of their acquaintance.

 

“Your name’s really Richelieu? Like the Cardinal?” Looking up and catching the resigned look in Armand’s eyes, his smile got softer. “You probably hear that a lot, huh? Don’t worry, Armand Not-the-Cardinal Richelieu. I’ll call you. I swear it, on my honour if you want me to.” He winked at him, with a soft and fond expression in his blue eyes. Armand felt his gaze on him the whole way out of the club.

 

 

 

**II. Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy**

 

It was the day after the party that Jean called for the first time. Armand missed it because of a late evening class and the – admittedly a little escalated – follow-up discussion with his tutor, but he couldn’t help the smile stealing onto his face when he found the voice message on his mailbox after coming home.

 

“Heyyy Armand, I don’t know if you have already forgotten me – I certainly hope not, of course, but, well. Whatever.” The other man cleared his throat and continued, a little lower, like he was embarrassed by his own enthusiasm, “I want to see you again. Really. I know I was a little drunk yesterday but… you’re striking. There. I said it. Sorry. I’ll try to tone it down, yeah?” A self-conscious laugh. “I know I can get a little intense sometimes. Still, _I'd like for you and I to go romancing, Say the word: your wish is my command_.”

 

His voice was really pleasant, especially while he sang the few bars of _Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy_. Armand smiled a little more, thinking about how fitting the song was for their situation and humming the melody of its refrain while he continued to listen to the recording.

 

“I live in a flat with two mates of mine,” Jean continued after a plea for a return call and telling Armand his number. “They’re both dorks, but they’ll stand up for me anytime and also know about the possibility of you calling. Which I really hope you’ll do, you know? So, if one of them reaches the phone before I do or while I’m not around, don’t be afraid, yeah?

 

“Belgard will probably grill you about everything, he can get a little scary at times,” a voice in the background shouted an insult and a denial, but he got completely ignored by Jean, “so don’t get intimidated by him if he tries that. But De Foix is fine. He’ll just take your name and number or something and give it to me later. So, if you can make the time this evening I’d be delighted. Looking forward to hearing from you! Bye!” The soft _click_ finished the recording, leaving Armand in the silence of his home.

 

He looked at the clock ticking on the wall and sighed. It was already nearing ten in the evening. He would call Jean back tomorrow.

 

 

 

**III. It’s late**

 

“Uhm, well, you haven’t called me back. Again. It’s fine, really. I understand.” A short, hard laugh, full of despair. “I got the message. I won’t bother you again. Still, t'was nice to meet you. I just thought- well, doesn’t matter now, huh? Have a nice life. Meet someone more fitting for you, I don’t know.” His voice got quiet at the end, followed by a few moments of silence before the distinct _click_ told Armand that his strange acquaintance had finished the call.

 

He waited until the mailbox told him that the caller had tried to reach him a little more than three hours ago and sighed. Picked up the receiver and pressed the digits of the number he had already remembered by heart. After the fifth ring the mailbox answered, a pleasant male voice greeting “You’re calling the number of de Foix, Belgard and Treville, we’re not there to answer you right now. Leave a message!” _Beeeeeep._

 

“Hey, um. It’s Armand.” The lanky man paused, a little unsure of how to continue, combing distractedly through his thick brown curls. “I just- sorry I didn’t call back. I didn’t miss that” He gulped, hesitant, then continued, lower: “-that date on purpose. My professor wanted to talk to me. It got late. And afterwards… I may have chickened out, a little. But, you know, what was that song again? _You say you love me - and I hardly know your name_. I know it’s late, but… is it already too late? Call me back if you’re not yet sick of me. _Don’t tell me that we’re through_ , yeah?”

 

He hung up, before he could embarrass himself further, his heart beating a hard staccato against his chest. He stared at the receiver as if it might bite him, not knowing if he had actually destroyed one of the best things he had so far in his life. It wouldn’t be the first time.

 

The phone rang only a moment later, shaking Armand out of his stupor. His hand picked up before his brain could catch up on his action, breathing “Yes?” into the microphone.

 

“Armand?” Jean asked, carefully, like he couldn’t believe his ears.

 

 

 

**IV. You Take My Breath Away**

 

They had moved in together about two years after they had started dating. It wasn’t long after Treville broke all contact with Belgard. He and de Foix had found out a part of their former friend's history that resulted in de Foix dropping out of University only half a year before the final exams to join the army and Treville completely refusing to speak with his old friend.

 

It had something to do with a black housemaid and an unacknowledged bastard child. Jean didn’t like to talk about it.

 

The apartment they shared for the past four years now was not overly big but enough for the two of them.

 

Armand had started to work with Bourbon Industries, thus fulfilling an old wish of his and Jean had joined the Division Generale de Paris, currently studying to become an official police training supervisor.

 

 

 

It was about half an hour before Armand usually came home that Treville had finished the final preparations. He knew his long-term boyfriend was currently on edge because of a huge project that was about to be finished and, thanks to being project leader, Richelieu was highly sought after in his company right now.

 

Yet Queen was in town and about to give a huge live concert later tonight in the Hippodrome.

 

And Armand didn’t know if he’d be able to make it.

 

Jean wanted this evening to be special, though, and he had called Anne who he knew was working with his lover on the project. She was an old friend of Richelieu and basically the one responsible for their first meeting. She didn’t need a lot of convincing to release her friend early, the first five words of the captain-in-training’s little speech made her already promise she would try her best to get the other man out of the office on time.

 

It gave Jean hope that maybe, just maybe, Armand would react in an agreeable way to what he had planned.

 

 

 

He waited anxiously until he heard the soft clicking sound of the lock and pressed the button on their remote for the huge stereo – the only truly luxury item they had – starting the record of _You take my breath away_.

 

Armand stepped into the living room only moments later, his eyes wide while he took in the arrangements.

 

“Jean?” he asked breathlessly. “What does this mean?”

 

The older man sounded terribly hopeful, his gaze sweeping over the roses and back to his lover, eliciting him a smile.

 

“ _Look into my eyes and you see I’m the only one_ ,” Freddie Mercury sang. “ _You’ve captured my love, stolen my heart, changed my life_.” Treville took a step forward, just out of reach of his boyfriend’s arms, his eyes fixed on Richelieu.

 

“I love you,” he stated with utter conviction. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

 

“ _You take my breath awaaay_ ,” Mercury’s voice whispered into the silent room. Armand stepped forward, nearly stumbling, and grabbed Jean’s hands in his. His eyes were wet.

 

“God, _yes_ ,” he whimpered and closed the distance between them to seal their lips together. His chest vibrated with silent sobs, his hands wandering up to cradle Jean’s face in them as Treville pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around the lanky figure.

 

The aspiring captain broke the kiss somewhere along the line “ _I’ll be right behind you_ ”, one hand buried in the lush curls, and mumbled, “I prepared a whole speech to convince you. Seems like that was all for naught.”

 

Armand laughed a light carefree happy laugh that melted Jean deep inside and left him completely breathless just from listening to it.

 

“The only way this day could get even better would be with a visit to the concert,” his lover – _fiancé_ – joked lightly while burying his head in the crook of Treville’s neck. Jean’s already silly grin only got wider.

 

 

 

**V. Don’t Stop Me Now**

 

He had said yes. Armand had scored that project he was so engaged him, securing his position with Bourbon Industries, and Jean had finally, _finally_ found the guts to ask his long-time partner if he’d be interested in confirming their relationship with a real, an official bond.

 

And Armand had said _yes,_ had said he’d _love_ to and now they were driving to the Hippodrome in Jean’s Peugeot 504 Cabriolet to see _Freddie Mercury_ and Queen _live_ in concert and his radio was blasting one Queen song after the next into the falling twilight around them and the night was warm and full of electricity and Jean was feeling _so_. _alive_.

 

Armand sat next to him, drumming the rhythm against the outside of the car, wild brown curls flying in the airstream. His eyes were hidden by dark glasses, his face turned to his driver and lover and _fiancé,_ watching him with a soft, fond expression. He looked positively radiant to Jean, beautiful and amazing and wonderful.

 

 

 

They were probably driving way too fast but Jean couldn’t bring himself to care. He was feeling giddy and lightheaded and close to exploding because he had _everything_ he had ever wanted, now, finally, for the first time in his life. And nothing could stop him now. (Except a red traffic light, maybe.)

 

The only downside of it was that there was still no legalisation of gay marriage in France and only very little support for same-sex domestic partners. But it would come, Jean was sure of that. He’d just have to wait. For the moment, the mere _though_ that Armand was ready to take that step with him was enough. Maybe he could find a priest or lawyer or ship captain or train captain or _someone_ who would allow them to recite their vows in a private ceremony, a wedding just for themselves.

 

 

 

His fiancé’s hand, the one that was not still drumming the rhythm of _Don’t Stop Me Now_ against the car’s door, caressed Jean’s leg, earning him a wide, ecstatic smile. The car stopped for a moment, waiting for the next green light. Jean turned fully to his still smiling companion and breathed a happy “I love you” to him. The smile got softer, probably lighting up the stormy eyes hidden behind the dark glasses.

 

“I know”, Armand answered and leaned in to steal a kiss before they had to continue their way to the Hippodrome.

 

 

 

**VI. I Was Born to Love You**

 

Keeping in mind that a marriage between two men was neither allowed nor legally acknowledged, Jean and Armand decided on an unofficial celebration in the circle of their closest friends and family to commemorate their new relationship status.

 

They spoke private vows in the presence of Anne and de Foix, who had taken a few days off just for this occasion, but were joined by a few other people later that evening, including Richelieu’s siblings Alphonse and Françoise with her daughter Marie Madeleine and Olivier de la Fère, a police recruit under Treville’s command whom Jean had taken a great liking to.

 

 

 

The location they had finally settled on was a small night club where the couple had spent many happy evenings and were very familiar with the innkeeper. He had offered to close down the club for them that night, but both had refused, their only request being a table for enough people and a hand in the evening’s track list.

 

And so, when the lights were dimmed and the crowd a little smaller the first bars of _I was born to love you_ were floating through the air.

 

Jean smiled at the man he’d call _husband_ from now on, a smile full of warmth and happiness.

 

“Can I have this dance, Monsieur?” he asked half-mockingly, offering his hands to the other man, earning a wide, giddy grin. Both of them were already a little intoxicated (not comparable to Olivier or de Foix though) and too publicly affectionate for their own good, but they were happy and so in love and utterly unable to care.

 

“I’d _love_ to,” Armand breathed in his ear after standing up, his voice only a sensual moan.

 

The crowd around them moved in time with the song, while Jean pulled Armand on the dance floor, his eyes never leaving the face of his _husband_.

 

The soft light illuminated his features beautifully, taking away all the sharp edges. The older man seemed to glow, maybe from the light, maybe from happiness, maybe from both. His hands were soft and hungry, devouring the captain right then, right there.

 

Treville never wanted him to stop.

 

 

 

Their bodies pressed closely together, wrapped around each other, and faces buried in their counterparts necks they swayed in time with the music. Jean whispered the lyrics in his husband’s ear, cheeks hurting from smiling too much.

 

For the moment, they were blissfully happy, uncaring about the world around them. They had each other and it was enough.

 

 

 

**VII. Under Pressure**

 

“You’re late,” Jean commented quietly when the front door of their house opened to reveal the pale figure of his husband. Armand looked incredibly tired, dark circles below his eyes and an unusual slouch in his stance. His hair was in disarray, as if he had ruffled through it a few times too often and even from this distance the tension in his frame was spotted easily.

 

Worried, the captain moved closer while the first bars of _Under Pressure_ waved through the unlit rooms.

 

Armand looked up, not at Jean but to their living room where the stereo stood, a strange, sad smile dancing on his lips. It disappeared again only a second later.

 

Treville reached for his partner. “Is everything alright?”

 

Before he was able to make contact, the older man raised a softly trembling hand in defence.

“Don’t touch me. Please.”

 

Jean stopped mid-air, staring at Richelieu in disbelief.

 

“Armand?” he whispered, “What’s going on?” The air around him suddenly seemed colder than moments before. “ _Under pressure that burns a building down - Splits a family in two_ ” the stereo blared.

 

For the first time of that evening their eyes met.

 

“I’m leaving.”

 

Treville tensed, lowering the still outstretched hand. Hurt and confused he asked: “Why? When? How long?”

 

“Now. Because I have to.” The trembling increased. He didn’t continue.

 

“Armand…” Treville knew he sounded frightened. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t care.

 

“Don’t, please.” His voice was so weak, nearly soundless.

 

“Armand, _how long_?”

 

They both knew the answer he’d give. Jean’s mind just refused even the idea of that implication, unable and unwilling to trust what every other sense tried to tell him.

 

“ _Please_ , don’t make me say it,” his husband begged. Treville’s sight blurred.

 

“How. Long?” His voice was hoarse, his breathing erratic.

 

“ _I won’t come back_.” A harsh whisper. They stared at each other in silence, Armand trembling and Jean with silent tears running down his cheeks. " _Why can't we give love that one more chance_?" the stereo mocked them.

 

“How can you,” Treville rasped. “We’ve been together for more than fifteen years. _How can you_?!” Richelieu took a step back at the angry, desperate vigour behind his words.

 

“I just have to.” His eyes were wild. “This is _my_ decision and you can’t change that!” He gnashed his teeth together and balled his fists to reduce the increased trembling. “Don’t make me say something you might regret later.”

 

Treville took a step forward, in full fighter’s stance now.

 

“Oh, now _I’m_ the one regretting it?!” He couldn’t see clearly anymore. He couldn’t think. Everything was spinning. “ _I wasn’t the one to propose this… this **bullshit** in the first place_!”

 

Armand closed his eyes, hurt and miserable.

 

“Please, Jean. For the love you bear for me – let me go and stop asking questions. I am setting you free.” His voice was a broken whisper when the stereo fell silent.

 

 

 

**VIII. It’s A Hard Life**

 

“You can’t be serious, Armand.”

 

“ _I don’t want my freedom_ ,” the late Freddie Mercury cried for him.

 

“ _Tell me_ that you’re not serious, please.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“You can’t just have fallen out of love with me,” the captain stated incredulously. Richelieu looked away, his features hard as stone. He seemed to fight with himself, the light of one of the street lamps illuminating the already slowly greying curls. His jaw was working while Treville waited. Scared. Desperate. Hopeful.

 

When he finally turned back to his husband there was none of the hurt, of the wretchedness left.

 

“Did you ever realise it has always been you to initiated every major change in our life together? Promoting to move in together, to get engaged, everything?” No emotion was left in his voice, in his hard gaze. Jean felt something breaking deep inside him. He scrambled backwards, away from that dreadful apparition, begging, _praying_ to anyone to wake him up.

 

For a moment it looked like Armand was sorry for his words, like he wanted to reach out for the younger man who was stumbling away, half blind for the tears streaming down his face.

 

Jean tried to flee into the direction of their living room to mute the stereo where Freddie Mercury was singing about their life with a terrible accuracy in the hope of finally, _finally_ bringing an end to this nightmare, but his knees gave out below him before he was able to reach the oracle. A sob shook his chest, a wheezing sound escaping him.

 

“Armand,” he pledged, his voice a broken whimper. “Don’t leave me, please.”

 

The other man held his place in the doorframe, unmoving like a statue.

 

“I don’t know how to carry on without you,” the captain admitted, trying to focus on the stranger in the entrance.

 

“You’ll do fine. You were fine before you met me, you’ll be fine again,” the other man answered, his voice tired instead of soothing. Jean shook his head, blinking away the tears and gasping for air, still unable to get up again.

 

“I can’t even _remember_ my life without you.” He sounded desperate, afraid. His throat was constricting and the room started spinning around him for the lack of air.

 

A low sigh escaped the man in the door, resulting in Jean snapping his head up, the last remains of his hope burning in his eyes.

 

“I will send Anne to gather my things in a few days. You won’t see me again.” The tiredness made Armand bow his head in defeat. “I don’t think I can deal with you in this state.” The pale hand made a grab for the handle, missing on the first try because of the terrible trembling.

 

“ _No_.”

 

“Yes, Jean. Farewell.” And he turned, stepped out of the house, out of Jean’s life, out of their love.

 

 

 

**IX. Love of My Life**

 

Treville broke down only moments after the door clicked shut. His whole body crumbled in on itself, there on the floor between the main entrance and the living room where _It’s a hard life_ had faded into _Love of my Life_.

 

His chest was wracked by horrible, heaving sobs.

 

What had he done wrong?

 

What had happened to result in this sudden fallout?

 

They had been _fine_ only hours ago. Perfect, really. There had been nothing wrong. Not for him, at least.

 

 

 

It had always been his role to initiate any major change. He had never realised until now it might have been that way because Armand hadn’t been ready. He had seemed ready enough whenever he had proposed anything, but his husband – _former partner_ now, as he realised – which resulted in him curling up and pressing his forehead against his knees, arms wrapped around his legs – hadn’t have a lot of relationships before the captain.

 

Treville had always been so sure in his affection – in his deep, unadulterated love for the other man – that he had never stopped to question Richelieu if he really, truly felt the same for him. He had never wanted to stop for this question, too afraid of the answer.

 

“ _Love of my life, can't you see? Bring it back, bring it back, don't take it away from me because you don't know what it means to me_ ,” the voice of the greatest singer who had ever lived caressed him, breaking his heart a little more.

 

 

 

He had smothered Armand with his affections to eliminate even smallest the possibility of Armand leaving him.

 

It wasn’t Treville that Armand had set free. He had freed himself.

 

He must have suffocated the older man with his constant affection. He wasn’t even able to blame him anymore for leaving him. For not being able to admit he had been too intense, too much of a burden. Of course Armand wouldn’t say that out loud.

 

Another sob crashed through him, silenced and gulped down against his knees, teeth clashing together until he tasted copper. He may have bitten his tongue somewhere in between. He whimpered. He didn’t care.

 

The only thing he knew was that he’d never be able to start his life anew. Not after those fifteen years he had spent at Armand’s side. Not after everything they went through together. Not after he had gotten a taste of what his true love felt like, tasted like, smelled like. There would be no other, no new love of his life.

 

A part of him would always wait for his husband – _not anymore!_ – to come back.

 

With a surge of sudden strength he got up, nearly sprinting over to the stereo, and cut its power, just after Mercury had breathed his final “ _Love of my life_ ” in the mic. He fished out the CD with trembling hands, one of their compilations they had put together with their _Ultimate Queen_ box set, and put it back in its case to hurl it against the couch cushions.

 

A howl, not unlike one from a wounded predator, left him, taking all the remaining energy with it. He fell into a near comatose sleep on the carpet next to the stereo, his features tense and tears in his eyes, in the utter silence that disturbed the house for the first time in as long as he could remember.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

**Part III - I. Let Me Live**

 

The cool night air was refreshing after the warm and cosy pub. A fine, drizzling rain was falling, wetting his hair and gluing it to his head within moments.

 

The captain raised his face towards the stormy autumn sky, relishing in the rough weather, and finally unclamped his hands from each other, pouring the blood in his palm into one of the drains on the street. He suppressed a hiss at the pain when the muscles finally relaxed, and cursed softly. A shiver took over his sturdy frame. He had forgotten his coat inside. Athos would bring it to him tomorrow, he was sure of that.

 

“ _Don’t_ touch me,” he growled into the night, turning on his heels a moment later to watch his ex-lover, ex-husband, ex-whatever recoil in sudden surprise and hurt.

 

“Did you think I wouldn’t know you’d be here?” he growled dangerously. “I trust the boys with my life. They told me this club was safe. And they were surprised. ‘Twasn’t too hard to put the pieces together.”

 

“Jean…”

 

“Fuck off.” He wouldn’t admit how only his name in _that voice_ already affected him, how hearing this voice again after this time made his heart bleed and sing at the same time.

 

“At least let me take a look at your hand,” the older man begged, his hands stretched out.

 

“I said, don’t touch me.” Richelieu withdrew again, pale and shaking. “What did you think would happen? That you appear again and I’d just magically fall back into your arms? Give you another little piece of my heart, _to take it and break it and tear it all apart_?” Treville looked away, balling his bleeding hand into a fist again, watching the droplets gather and fall down on the dark, wet street.

 

In the corner of his eyes he could see the other man fishing around in one of his coat pockets, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter after a few moments of struggle. While he lit the tip of it and took a first drag, Treville continued, still not looking at him: “You took everything from me when you left. Forced me to make a brand new start, against my will. And I did that, I started anew. All I’m asking of you now is to let me live. And leave me alone.”

 

He raised his head, eyes formed to slits and burning their gaze into his counterpart. The soft glimmer of the cigarette wasn’t enough to illuminate his features, but enough to accentuate the dark rings and gauntness of his cheeks.

 

“This is my choice,” he finished, his voice hard, “and I wish you would respect that.”

 

 

 

**II. These Are the Days of Our Lives**

 

“I don’t think I can.” His hands were trembling.

 

“You don’t have a say in this.” Treville’s face was as hard and unyielding as stone. He turned away, starting to walk in the direction of his house.

 

“Would you at least listen to me, _please_?” the older man begged softly. He sounded exasperated. Devastated. The captain stopped, yet refused to look back, give him anything.

 

“The last time I did that ended with me being dumped by you.”

 

“What if this time could end with the opposite?”

 

“Me dumping you? Look at me, doing that right now. Except we’re not a couple anymore.”

 

Richelieu hissed, frustrated, taking another drag of that blasted fag. “ _No_ , Jean. With me coming back to you.”

 

That made the younger man turn back. Yet his glare was full of anger and disgust, not the hopeful expression the lanky man had wished for.

 

“Did it ever come to your oh-so-brilliant mind that I might not wish to take you back, _Armand_?” He stepped closer, crowding into his former lovers space, and growled while looking up to him: “ _Nothing_ you can say or do will take the last years away from me. You left me out of the blue, without a real explanation or a proper good-bye. Do you _expect_ me to just _forgive_ you that?”

 

“No,” the other man whispered, lowering the hand with the cigarette. He didn’t move away. “No, I don’t expect you to… to just forgive me. But I had hoped, that, maybe, you’d be able to give me another chance.”

 

Treville’s hand hurt. He looked down, unfurling and clamping it together again.

 

“You _broke_ me, that day,” he admitted, his voice barely above the sound of the _pitter-patter_ surrounding them. Water had started running down his face. It might have been rain. Richelieu flinched.

 

“ _Those days are all gone now, but one thing is true - When I look, and I find, I still love you_ ,” he answered, as quiet as Treville had been. It wrested a small, sad smile out of his counterpart.

 

Reluctantly, he raised the not-bleeding hand to his ex’s face, letting his fingers linger on the pale skin. Both exhaled a soft sigh at the contact.

 

“But _you can't turn back the clock; you can't turn back the tide._ Don’t follow me. I beg of you,” he pleaded, turned away and left. The rain increased.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Part IV - I. Who Wants To Live Forever**

 

The house was too big and too quiet when Jean finally reached it, soaked to the bone and shivering from the cold. He stumbled into the living room, tearing off the wet shirt he was wearing. The cloth landed somewhere on the ground. He would pick it up later. Tomorrow. Whatever.

 

A trembling hand ruffled through his hair, the other still balled together to prevent staining the carpet with blood. The silence was deafening.

 

He stood in the centre of the room, at a complete loss, and wondered what he had done to deserve this punishment.

 

He had been fine. After, what, three years since Armand had left? four? he had truly been fine again. Not happy, but content. Tonight had reopened old wounds he had long thought scarred. He sighed, tiredly, and sat down on one of the armchairs. Just to stand up again, disgusted by the wet texture pressing against all the wrong places.

 

After peeling off the trousers too – which was astonishingly more difficult with only one hand instead of two – and deciding that self-pity should come after first aid and a hot shower, he dragged himself to the bathroom, eyes boring into an equipment of his living room he hadn’t used for years on his way out.

 

 

 

He felt more like a proper human again and less like a drowned rat when he came back, hand sloppily bandaged and with one single, proud aim in his mind. He had already started to walk down memory lane tonight, with the sudden appearance of his ex. After all this time, his mind was finally ready to ask for closure. This would be the last night of self-pitying and getting drunk over the lost love of his life.

 

The wine had been opened, only a bottle, no glass. Its faint scent wavered through the air, telling tales long forgotten.

 

His hands, calmed again, reached for the CD box on the shelf, never looked at yet its place had been burned deep in his mind. Dust had gathered on the collection, his fingers leaving prints in it while he reverently pulled out _A Kind of Magic_.

 

The stereo was still in perfect working order, even after years of being plain out ignored by the owner of the house. Treville jumped straight to the sixth track and closed his eyes when Freddie Mercury’s voice picked up the melancholy lines. The box was put down on the ground.

 

Goosebumps were spreading over his arms and back when the captain retreated to his couch, taking the bottle with him.

 

_Sip._ After tonight, he would sell the house. It hadn’t been a home to him since that fateful night years ago, leaving him as a lonely 40 year old gay.

 

_Sip._ He was still wondering what had driven Armand away from him, so suddenly, unexpectedly. Thanks to Anne, who had been seeing Athos more or less regularly since his unofficial marriage party, he knew that the truly horrendous accusations he had made himself – about pressuring Richelieu into a relationship the other man hadn’t even wanted – were completely unjustified

 

She had been unable to give him any other details, too, though.

 

_Sip. “This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us_ ,” Freddie lamented.

 

_Sip. “Who wants to live forever?”_

_Sip. “Who wants to live forever? Who dares to love forever when love must die?”_

 

_A long Sip._ He did have his moment of happiness. A long, bright moment, like a burning comet, lighting up his life and leaving him in sudden darkness.

 

He had basked in the light of the sun for too long, letting it melt away everything that held him together and leaving him to fall, a long, long way.

 

He didn’t get his Happy Ever After. He only got time. Time and memories of moments long gone.

 

And finally, _finally_ , he was ready to stop waiting. To move on with his life, away from a past that still haunted his dreams at night and woke him, bathed in cold sweat, reaching for someone by his side who wasn’t there anymore.

 

He put the bottle back on the table and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking in silent sobs.

 

 

 

**II. Too Much Love Will Kill You**

 

There was a long break following the song, and when the music finally continued Jean instantly realised that something was wrong. He raised his head.

 

“ _I’m just the pieces of the man I used to be_ ,” wavered through the room, wistfully.

 

“I told you not to follow me,” the old captain greeted his unexpected visitor. He didn’t even sound angry anymore, only tired, sad.

 

“I didn’t,” Armand’s soft tenor answered him, staring at the CD case in his hands. “I… I just wanted to know what had happened to our house. I didn’t expect that the key would still fit. And I didn’t expect to find you here either. I thought you’d have moved out as fast as possible after…” He sounded subdued and still refused to meet Jean’s eyes.

 

“That’s breaking and entering, you know?” Jean asked, his voice a little hoarse but more stable than he had expected – feared – it to be.

 

“Sorry.” The taller man put down the hull and finally turned around. “You look terrible.”

 

“What do you want, Armand?”

 

“I want you back,” he openly admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Treville exhaled a long, low breath, gaze unmoving.

 

“Why?” _Why now?_ could be heard in this question. _Why now and not the moment you left me in the first place?_

 

“Because I have been utterly unable to move on.” He placed his hands on one of the boards above the stereo and continued, a faint blush spreading over his cheeks: “And I know you have been unable to do so, too.”

 

“You kept tabs on me.”

 

“Anne.”

 

Treville growled without any real malice. “I’m surprised she didn’t refuse to talk to you after you _dumped_ me, out of the blue.”

 

Richelieu flinched, the blush deepening.

 

“She did, for a while.”

 

They fell silent, both listening to the familiar words. “ _How would you feel if you were standing in my shoes – can’t you see that it’s impossible to choose?_ ”

 

Armand finally walked over to the captain, his head bowed, and sat down on the sofa, next to him.

 

They were close, but not touching. Richelieu stared at his former lover’s hands, Treville just out of the window.

 

“How high are the chances of me winning you back?” His eyes were still glued to the other man’s hands.

 

“I don’t want to go back.” Treville turned to his visitor, pale and tired and _old_. “I don’t think I _can_ go back.”

 

“I’m not asking for that,” Armand said quietly. “I only ask for a second chance.” He breathed in deeply and explained, a little rushed: “The last time, everything, every major advance in our relationship had been initiated by you. Which is fine. I don’t think I’d have been of any help in that matter, back then. But if you give me this new chance, _that_ will have to change. If it doesn’t, I don’t think it can work out. Not because I want to be in charge of our relationship, but because I think you won’t be able to fully trust me again if we go the same way as back then.”

 

His hands were looking for something to do, and, upon realising there was nothing to occupy them with while he waited for an answer, started to tremble.

 

“I want a clean slate for us. A new beginning. I know we can’t go back to what we had. But we can try anew. We can try again, differently than back then. We’re changed. Our dynamics will have changed, too. And I’m finally ready to stand up for _us_ ,” he added, anxiously, still staring at Treville’s hands.

 

“I am not sure I am ready to try again.” _With you_ , echoed through the room menacingly. His uninjured hand ruffled through his hair. “I am not sure I will be ready for that, _ever_.”

 

“Then I’ll wait. For as long as it may take.”

 

Their eyes finally met, hurting and desperate, lonely, yet so, so sincere.

 

“Why?” Jean asked with a broken whisper, opening and closing the bandaged fist.

 

“Because you’re worth it. And you always have been. And I am so, _so_ sorry for making you believe otherwise.”

 

 

 

**III. My Life Has Been Saved**

 

The last bars of _Too Much Love Will Kill You_ faded away while they stared at each other, still without touching.

 

Treville looked terribly unsure, like he was afraid, and it unsettled Richelieu deeply. Jean had never been afraid, for as long as they had known each other, for as long as Armand could remember. Except for one other night.

 

It didn’t fit the picture he had of the other man, that bulwark of unwavering loyalty and faith in the people around him. He didn’t want to see Jean afraid, not of him.

 

“Can I take a look at your hand?” he begged quietly, offering his open palms to the other man. The captain hesitated for a long, crucial moment before placing the injured limb in them. His hands were shaking, trembling in a way well known to Armand. This acceptance of help was a peace offering, from both sides. It felt like Jean had put his _heart_ in the long-fingered hands of Armand instead of the bleeding fist.

 

A sad smile stole itself on his face while he unwrapped his fist carefully, to the first notes of the fifth track of the _Made in Heaven_ album.

 

The bandage, wound around the hand only loosely, was already partially soaked with dark red. The cuts looked probably worse than they actually were, yet Richelieu couldn’t suppress a sympathetic sigh at the sight of them.

 

“Did you check if there are any shards left in the –“

 

“Course I did,” Treville interrupted him, growling. His hand was already twitching backwards, back to its owner. It didn’t seem to be a conscious gesture. “I can take care of myself.”

 

Richelieu swallowed heavily.

 

“You shouldn’t have to,” he mumbled and pressed a quick kiss to the palm before wrapping the linen around it again, snug and tight, as it should be. He tasted copper. But the trembling stopped.

 

“ _My life has been saved_ ,” Freddie Mercury sang.

 

Their hands lingered in the joined touch, Armand’s finger pressing in small circles against Jean’s. He didn’t even think about it, didn’t even realise what he was doing, until his counterpart started to relax into the soft ministrations.

 

“And now?” Treville asked, his voice low yet kind. The tension had left his shoulders, at least enough to make him sink into the cushions. He didn’t take away his now more properly treated fist.

 

Richelieu smiled, a teary, wobbly smile of carefully rebuilding, carefully growing hope. One hand wandered to his former lovers face, caressing the winkles and creases he had gotten in the years they had spent apart.

 

“I’m still waiting for an answer,” he said quietly, warmly. “I mean, _I'd like for you and I to go romancing, Say the word: your wish is my command_.”

 

The weak, answering grin was everything he had ever hoped for.

 

“Yes, I’ll let you romance me. But I can’t promise it’ll work out.”

 

“It will. I believe in it. In us.” Armand started to fidget after a moment, before murmuring: “Just one last request, before I leave you for tonight.”

 

Jean hummed curiously, invitingly.

 

“I’d very much like to kiss you, if you allow me. Just once, to give me a taste of what I’m fighting for.” He blushed, pulling his hand away from the younger man’s face.

 

“You’re unbelievable,” Jean grumbled, yet put his free hand against the older man’s cheek and pulled him in for a soft, careful, lingering kiss.

 

Only to break away after a moment, growling: “But if you want to have _any_ chance at all, you better quit that blasted smoking. Fast.”

 

Armand’s silvery laughter was like the first drops of rain after a long draught.

 

 


End file.
